Still Whispering After All These Years, page 30
By the time we began work on the documentary, Ali’s cancer had spread to her lungs, forcing her to retire from the BBC. Although increasingly encumbered by the equipment she needed to help her breathing, she ‘got bored with sitting around at home and waiting to die’ and, following her work on the documentary, had resumed her broadcasting career as a newsreader at Oxfordshire station Jack FM, sounding as bright and articulate as she always did. Before she died she made a series of audio diaries documenting her life with cancer, recordings so moving that they deservedly won her two major radio awards in 2010, a Sony Silver in ‘The Best Community Programming’ category and a Radio Academy Gold Arqiva, the biggest award in Commercial Radio. The diaries were also featured in The Sunday Times and there was even a tribute to Ali in the House of Commons, when Wantage MP Ed Vaisey made a speech in her honour. ‘The way she fought cancer,’ he said, ‘made it seem like she was indestructible.’
At no point during her long ordeal did I once hear Ali complain. Throughout, she was a caring and constant source of inspiration to me in my own battle with cancer and a true and loyal friend to Trudie, who describes her as being her soul sister. Just before she passed away, Ali wrote, ‘I have a wobbly moment, silently in my head while no one else notices, and I turn into a frightened little girl who’s changed her mind about having terminal cancer now, and would like someone to make it stop.’
Ali Booker died at the Sobell House Hospice in Oxford on 1st July 2010 and we all miss her very much.
Our friendship with Ali and my own health issues had underlined to Trudie and I the importance of the work done by Cancer Research UK, and had focused our minds on our Sound and Vision event, held at Abbey Road a few months before Ali passed away, the planning of which had begun almost two years earlier in Nashville, in the week of the 2008 Americana Music Awards, where Robert Plant and Alison Krauss were the big winners with their Album of the Year Award for Raising Sand. I’d spoken to Beth Nielsen Chapman about the possibility of her being involved in the event and we’d been trying to meet up for the entire week to talk about it but I’d been so busy covering the Awards for Radio 2 and compiling material for Bob Harris Country that I’d had no free time.
I’d recorded sessions and interviews with country star Suzy Bogguss, John Peel protégé Laura Cantrell, the frightening and intense James McMurtry and Kentucky musician and writer Chris Knight, who had just released his sixth album Heart Of Stone produced by Dan Baird of the Georgia Satellites. Chris also works regularly with Ray Kennedy, one of my favourite producers, and is a major talent. Honest, gritty and uncompromising, he should be right up there with Bruce Springsteen and John Mellencamp.
My work schedule had literally filled every minute of the week but finally, on Friday, a window appeared. Beth phoned me to say she was free that afternoon and would collect me at 3 o’clock at the end of my final session and take me for a beer at Bobby’s Idle Hour, an old-style drinking house near Music Row, about a block away from the Audio Productions studio.
‘The only problem is that I haven’t got a lot of time,’ she warned. ‘I’ve got a really important meeting with my agent Paul Fenn and whatever happens, I must be away by four.’
A few moments after we finished our conversation my phone rang again. This time it was Robert Plant’s manager, Nicola Powell, who had called with a lovely invitation. She and Robert were free that night and would like to take me out to dinner. She was thrilled when I mentioned Beth. ‘Robert will love to meet her, he’s a big fan.’ She told me that Robert had a photoshoot organized for five o’clock at Buddy Miller’s house and suggested that we meet up at 4.30 outside a vintage bookshop on the high street at Hillsborough Village, just outside of Nashville, not far from Buddy’s house. I agreed, of course, and immediately phoned Beth.
‘You’re going to have to cancel your meeting,’ I told her.
Beth was astonished. ‘I can’t possibly do that, Bob! It’s much too important. We’re talking about a UK tour!’
‘Beth,’ I explained. ‘We’re having dinner tonight with Robert Plant.’
There was a short pause.
‘My dinner is so cancelled!’ she said.
Beth and I arrived at the bookseller’s a few minutes early and sat for a while outside a nearby coffee shop, chatting and chilling in the sunshine as we watched the people go by. Nicola soon joined us and as we sat sipping our coffees we saw Robert pull into the parking lot opposite. He waved as he got out of his car but instead of crossing the street to join us, he turned left and strode up the sidewalk, disappearing into the crowd. We sat waiting for him for ages, to the point where Nicola was getting worried, so I set off to find him, soon discovering him in a little instrument shop about two blocks away. He’d noticed a harmonica in the window as he’d driven past and was playing it as I walked in, lost in the moment.
As we headed back down the high street together, I noticed a couple of boys in baseball caps, probably in their early twenties, skateboarding on the pavement opposite, weaving their way in and out of the pedestrians. At the moment I looked across one of them glanced up and spotted Robert and in a split second an extraordinary thing happened. The boys seemed to lose all sense of reason and control as they sprinted, skateboards flying everywhere, straight into the busy traffic towards us, self-preservation forgotten in the rush. One of them lost his flip-flops in the middle of the road, cars and pick-ups swerved to avoid them, people were pointing and shouting and suddenly it was like being in a slow-motion movie. By the time we joined Beth and Nicola at the coffee shop, we were swamped by a crowd of excited people, all desperate for an autograph or a picture with Robert, exhilarating as well as being a little scary.
‘Well,’ said Beth to Robert later. ‘If you must stride round Nashville looking like a lion, what do you expect?!’
We eventually made it to Buddy Miller’s house for the photo session before heading out to dinner at a sweet, quiet Italian restaurant in the centre of downtown Nashville, where we surrendered to a magical evening of good food, red wine, conversation, memories and laughter. I told Robert of the passion I was feeling for the Sound and Vision project and he immediately promised to get involved but only on one condition – that he was given the freedom to create a performance that was absolutely unique. Boy, did he keep his promise.
As we began to formulate the line-up, I called David Gray, who also generously offered his time. I was probably the first person to play him on UK radio and I still have fond memories of the broadcasts we did together when I was at GLR in London in the 90s. David is a big Manchester United fan and one of his first sessions for my show exactly coincided with a Wednesday night Champions League game. For about the only time ever, I’d left the monitor on in the studio and however much we tried we could not help being drawn to the screen. David was about halfway through his first live number when United scored their first goal. Session forgotten, we were both out of our seats, fists pumping, high fiving in the middle of the studio.
His commitment to Sound and Vision 2010 was really appreciated and the event turned out to be an absolute triumph. Newton Faulkner began the evening with a characteristically funky and rhythmic performance and after David had played, Beth performed a truly beautiful set accompanied by multi-instrumentalist Maartin Allcock. But the focus of the night was Robert. I knew he’d put everything he had into the rehearsals for this moment and when I introduced him to the room, the sense of anticipation was awesome. He and hurdy gurdy player Nigel Eaton were surrounded onstage by the seventy-strong London Oriana Choir, performing a set comprising of songs by one of Robert’s great heroes – Scott Walker. It was quite simply one of the best musical moments I have ever witnessed, Robert bending and blending his vocals with the voices of the choir, Beth adding her heavenly harmonies. It was beautiful. Not only that, when the auction proceeds and online bids had been totalled up, we had all raised more than £260,000 for Cancer Research UK.
It was hard to imagine that we would ever top that figure but the following year we did. Essential to the success of the 2011 event was the incredible energy of our auctioneer Al Murray who, in his role as pub landlord, was down from the stage, bantering with the crowd and whipping up bids for the money-can’t-buy auction items on display. Nicky Campbell and Jon Briggs helped me with the compering duties, Giles Martin addressed the audience on behalf of his father Sir George, and the music was once again amazing, with perfectly pitched sets from Eve Selis, the perennial Newton Faulkner, Liam Bailey and The Feeling, all setting the tone for Tom Jones to take to the stage to deliver a performance of incredible power and professionalism. Between us all, we raised £340,000 at Abbey Road that night, taking the Sound and Vision total to well over £1,000,000. Finally, to complete what was a truly special moment, Robin Gibb appeared onstage from nowhere to present me with a UK Heritage Award. It was an amazing honour but it wasn’t the first time that Robin had brought unexpected joy into my life.
Early in 2003, I’d received a call from Phil Hughes, my executive producer at Radio 2. He told me that the network was making a Bee Gees documentary and that he would like me to record a career interview with Robin at Broadcasting House for the programme.
‘It’s a major project and we’ll be filming it too,’ he told me.
The idea of having cameras in the studio didn’t surprise me. The BBC was in the early stages of developing its digital service BBCi (later rebranded as The Red Button) and had begun to look for ways of visualizing as much of its radio output as possible, an on-going process that now sees multi-camera shoots for In Concert programmes, interactive coverage of the The Chart Show and Sounds Of The 80s and Go Pro-like technology attached to every microphone in every on-air studio at Radio 1.
I was thrilled by the whole idea of the Bee Gees project but amazed by how uncharacteristically flat and disinterested Trudie appeared to be when I told her the news. This was not like her at all and to be truthful, she hadn’t seemed herself for several weeks. She seemed to be drifting away from me, becoming distant and disconnected, constantly disappearing to various parts of the house with her mobile phone or standing out by the washing line in the garden (her favourite private spot), to hold furtive conversations I knew she didn’t want me to hear. She seemed reluctant to look me in the eye and was dismissive when I asked her if there was anything wrong.
We had been invited to a Radio Academy Awards event at the Shaw Theatre a few days later and I was hoping this would give her a chance to relax and enjoy herself but we hardly spoke as we drove to London as my worries about our relationship intensified. Thankfully, she seemed to unwind as we took our places in the auditorium to settle in for what became an amazing evening.
I was particularly pleased to see Robin Gibb arrive on stage to collect the Scott Piering Award on behalf of the Bee Gees, receiving a standing ovation as he made an impassioned speech extolling the virtues of UK musicianship.
‘I’d like to see British music dominate the American charts again,’ he said. ‘It’s very important British songwriters are supported here at home. We can do it. We’ve got great writers and talent and we’ve got originality and innovation in this industry.’
I knew that Steve Harley was going to be one of the main presenters and I had with me a valuable white label copy of the first Cockney Rebel album, which I planned to give him later to auction for charity. Steve is a tireless campaigner, raising money for the Mines Advisory Group and working with several schools for disabled children, projects that in recent years have seen him lead two fundraising treks, one in Cambodia and another across the formidable Death Valley in Eastern California. Soon, he took the microphone to hand over the PRS award for Outstanding Contribution to Music Radio, and as he started his introduction I was speculating as to whom the recipient might be.
‘This fellow has the right attitude to rock music,’ he began. ‘He started his career on Radio 1 on Sounds Of The 70s in August 1970 ...’
I lost the rest of his speech in the excitement of the moment, engulfed by the realization that the recipient was me! It was a total surprise and as Steve recited a roll call of my career highlights, I turned to look at Trudie.
‘Did you know about this?’ I asked. As she smiled, I began to feel a whole lot better.
‘Of course you did!’
Suddenly, the last few weeks of Trudie’s covert conversations and whispered phone calls made some sense and I was as much relieved that this was the explanation for her distant behaviour as I was thrilled to get the award itself. I strode onto the stage clutching my Cockney Rebel white label.
‘eBay!’ said Steve as I handed him the record.
I felt so happy. I’d been acknowledged by the Radio Academy, everything was good with Trudie and we were celebrating a wonderful evening surrounded by people who were special in our lives. Amanda Beel had booked a table at the Four Lanterns in Cleveland Street, one of her favourite restaurants, where we were joined by Radio 2 controller Lesley Douglas and my producer Phil Swern.
Amanda has been part of our world since my early days back on Radio 1 in the 1990s, when she was part of the promotion team for Sony Records, delivering music to my desk from such as Shawn Colvin, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Bruce Springsteen and Jeff Buckley. She was a colleague of the late and much missed Stuart Emery before founding her own company, All About Promotions, in 2003, representing a roster of artists which currently includes Paul Carrack, Fiona Bevan, Red Sky July, Midge Ure and Callaghan. I love spending time with Amanda. She knows the music industry like the back of her hand and truly cares for the artists she represents. Like Susan de Cartier and Shauna de Cartier in Toronto, she is a dedicated and phenomenal woman surviving and thriving in the male-dominated world of the music business.
The atmosphere on the journey home with Trudie was in total contrast to the silent drive to London earlier that evening and, as we spilled laughing into our house, we were met with a hug from our beautiful friend Marie, who had been babysitting for us. We’d first met Marie, her husband Mark and their boys Toby and Ben in the playground at Hanney School, soon after meeting Ali Booker and our families have been close right through the nearly twenty years that have passed since then.
‘How was your evening?’ she asked me.
‘It was fabulous,’ I replied. ‘Steve Harley did this whole career retrospective before he gave me the award. It felt a bit like being on This Is Your Life!’
She nearly spat out the champagne she was drinking. There was a silent pause before a now flustered Marie unexpectedly explained that Mark and the boys were waiting for her and she really had to get home. Seconds later she’d grabbed her coat, was out of the door and gone.
Trudie and I stayed up celebrating until the early hours and I was so pleased things between us would now settle back to normal. Alarmingly, however, the reassurance did not last long. The furtive phone calls picked up again and I knew she was concealing something. The more it became clear that the Radio Academy evening wasn’t the answer after all, the more suspicious I became of these furtive, half-heard conversations.
‘Oh, it was the parent/teacher association again,’ she would unconvincingly explain.
All these worries were rumbling around in my head as I got to Broadcasting House a few days later for the big recording with Robin Gibb. My friend Roy Webber had called to tell me that he’d be in London that day, so I’d invited him to be there too. I’d built myself up for this moment and when Roy and I arrived to discover a full film crew in the studio and a control room packed with people I realized Phil Hughes was right; this interview really was a very big deal. Robin arrived shortly after and I complimented him on his brilliant Radio Academy speech as he and I took our places under the studio lights. Soon we were reminiscing about the amazing and memorable day we’d spent together twenty-five years earlier at the Criteria Sound Studios in Miami, where he and his brothers Barry and Maurice had given me a private and exclusive live performance of their much anticipated new album Spirits Having Flown, months before its release, still one of the absolute highlights of my musical life.
As he always was, Robin was sensitive, enthusiastic and engaging and we were well into a really enjoyable interview when I heard someone push open the big soundproofed door behind me. There is a strict protocol preventing anyone entering a studio when a recording is taking place and it was with some irritation that I turned to see who was interrupting us. The first thing I saw, as I squinted through the haze of the television lights, was a big red book, held by a smiling Michael Aspel who was walking across the studio towards us. I leaned back, expecting him to address Robin but instead, he turned to me.
‘Pardon the invasion into your studio, Bob. Robin Gibb, you know that you’re not just here to be interviewed by Whispering Bob, because you know I’m here to say ... Bob Harris, This Is Your Life!’
I absolutely could not believe it. I’d been a fan of the programme for many years, going right back to the Eamonn Andrews days of the 50s and 60s but I never dreamed I would ever be the subject. This was a huge honour and I was thrilled and excited, but how naive had I been? All those weeks of suspicion, Trudie’s secret phone calls, Marie’s reaction, Radio 2’s deception and (now I began to think about it) a thousand other little signs ... I looked at Roy and Robin, who burst out laughing as they stepped forward to give me a big hug. More and more people spilled into the studio, slapping my back and shaking me by the hand, Phil Hughes tapping his nose with a knowing look.
Soon, the programme production team were pulling Roy and I away and escorting us out of Broadcasting House and into a waiting Mercedes. Roy explained that he was my designated chaperone and, of course, he was not going to breathe a word of what was about to happen. Months of planning had gone into all of this.
